


Black Hole Sun

by t_pock



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alley Sex, Blackwatch Jesse McCree, Casual Enemies Sex, Face-Fucking, Fuck At First Sight, Groping, Hotel Sex, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Power Play, Rough Sex, Scion Hanzo Shimada, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-13
Updated: 2018-09-13
Packaged: 2019-07-11 14:09:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15973916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/t_pock/pseuds/t_pock
Summary: For some reason he hasn’t yet tossed his hand and found somewhere less foul to cut a deal. Something has him planted with his wingtips on the filthy floor instead of calling his chauffeur to return him to his hotel and ordering one of his lieutenants to burn this suit.It may or may not be the hand between his legs.Or, the Shimada scion encounters an unknown agent.





	Black Hole Sun

**Author's Note:**

> Better late to the Scion Hanzo party than never.

The den is smogged with cigar smoke so gritty Hanzo can feel it settling in the scales on the ribs of his reinforced waistcoat. The cards in his hand feel tacky even through his gloves, and the stink of sweat and worse hangs like a natural chloroform in the blurry air.

 

Even the most modest of his own dens in Hanamura—a betting shop in the bowels of a side street fish market—has more class than this joint, but for some reason he hasn’t yet tossed his hand and found somewhere less foul to cut a deal. Something has him planted with his wingtips on the filthy floor instead of calling his chauffeur to return him to his hotel and ordering one of his lieutenants to burn this suit.

 

It may or may not be the hand between his legs.

 

It’s a big hand, big enough to palm the inside of his broad thigh and splay fingers across the crotch of his pinstripes. The heat of it grips him in the vulnerable crease where his hip meets his groin, where the drag of a worn glove against his pant fabric raises the hairs underneath.

 

The hand belongs to the stranger at his left. Hanzo had noticed him the moment he arrived, a lodestone to Hanzo’s magnetic sense of danger, tipped backward in his chair against a wall and grinning behind a parapet of chips. The rest of his face was hidden by the brim of his hat, but his attention had burned on Hanzo’s back as he was escorted through the den to the bellwether’s game. It had only taken the stranger ten rounds to make it from his peripheral table by the door to the seat next to Hanzo, the other subordinates buzzing from too much cocaine to notice.

 

That was when Hanzo had decided this sloppy dive wasn’t worth the affiliation of dragons, and also when the stranger had grabbed him by the cock.

 

The bodyguard Hanzo brought into the den with him had her gun jammed into the stranger’s spine in the same moment, but the man’s lazy smile made Hanzo curious enough to wave her back.

 

He’d assumed the stranger was a watchdog posted by the boss to oversee this prestigious Shimada deal, before he realized this gang was too crude to own a man who radiated fatality like this. Now Hanzo assumes that he is someone else’s plant, though he hasn’t yet determined whether or not he is the man’s target.

 

The fingers brushing his fly make him think so, but he’s never met a honeypot like this one. He’s not unfamiliar with being solicited under a negotiation table—he is just used to more coquetry and simpering than this bold groping. No one trying to leverage, extort or assassinate him before has ever copped this kind of feel first.

 

“You have misplaced something,” Hanzo informs the stranger. He pushes more money across the table and then turns to look.

 

The man is neither young nor old, like him, and big all over. He pulses with some kind of power that the dragons recognize and begin to pulse in time with. Beneath his hat his eye glitters like the cherry of his cigarillo.

 

“Reckon I placed it just right,” the man says on an exhale, smudging the air with more smoke. He returns Hanzo’s scrutiny and then gives him a rude squeeze.

 

Surprising himself, Hanzo throbs under the pressure. He eyes the stranger’s languid grin, his strong jaw, his thick arms and chest. Usually his tastes run very petite, but this insolent man and possible plug has piqued his interest.

 

“Remove your hand or lose it,” Hanzo says, testing. He has no qualms about fulfilling the threat—he has cut off fingers for far lesser offenses than this.

 

The man chuckles and uses his handhold on Hanzo’s thigh to haul him closer, the legs of his chair squealing as it scrapes across the floor. Hanzo isn’t normally impressed by shows of brute strength, but the sudden press of hard bulk and heat all along his left side inexplicably makes him throb again.

 

“We both like it where it is.” The stranger winks.

 

Hanzo thinks briefly about putting a knife in that eye. “You are, as they say, incredibly brave or incredibly stupid.”

 

“Incredibly stupid,” the stranger says immediately. “A real idiot.” His rugged face does something very charming. “Don’t hold it against me.”

 

Hanzo looks back at the table long enough to collect his winnings. “I do not suffer idiots.” He gestures toward his lap. “Much less idiots sent to kill me.”

 

“Kill _you_?” the man echoes with flirty disbelief. His red gaze drops from Hanzo’s eyes, to his lips, to his throat, to his lap. A crooked, hungry smile pulls at his mouth. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

 

Right as he says it, the den boss lurches to his feet, knocking the table and upsetting the bets, and raises a sloshing glass for a toast. There, under his armpit—Hanzo sees the barest lump ruining the line of his middling suit, probably invisible to anyone besides him and his people. He’s been tagged.

 

“Anyone else in this shithole?” the stranger continues meaningfully. “That’s another story.”

 

Hanzo relaxes marginally, taking a moment to right his chips. Not him then—that changes things. After arranging his next bet, he turns to look closer. The man is truly a deviation from his regular—when he flexes shamelessly and spreads his legs under Hanzo’s look, he bulges under his skin-tight shirt and his clinging pants. Hanzo is less impressed with the man’s dimensions, however, than he is with the danger fogging the air around him like another cigarillo cloud, like a threatening cologne.

 

Hanzo waits until after he has won fivefold his open to bow out of the table. He gestures for his bodyguard to organize his winnings, and then grips the stranger’s thick wrist hard enough to make the bones grind together, removing it from where he is starting to stiffen.

 

The deal he crossed seas to broker is a bust, but he can still collect.

 

He drops the stranger’s hand in his own lap and nods in the direction of the den’s rear exit. “If you are as brave as you are stupid,” he says, and leaves his detail to handle the spluttering boss at the table.

 

The stranger’s attention follows him all the way to the exit. By the time Hanzo gets his hand on the greasy doorknob, he can feel that red eye right behind him.

 

—

 

Outside, the stranger wastes no time shouldering Hanzo against the alley brick beside the den’s backdoor, pausing long enough to hang his hat on the bare lightbulb above their heads and plunge them into darkness. Then he leans in and seizes Hanzo’s mouth in a hard kiss.

 

Hanzo bites him, harsh and punitive, for the rough treatment of his suit, though the reinforcements in the fabric dissipate the brunt of the stranger’s manhandling. The stranger hums into his mouth and pulls back, tonguing the bead of blood welling on his lip.

 

“This suit cost more than your life,” Hanzo tells him, digging his fingers into the stranger’s shoulders where he grabbed the man on instinct. The dragons twist hard on the bone knobs of his wrist and elbow, threatening to rise.

 

The stranger grins despite the claws in his traps. “My apologies,” he rumbles, and bites Hanzo back.

 

Their kiss goes coppery. Hanzo wrenches his face away, baring his teeth at the man’s audacity; the stranger just takes the opportunity to slide a big thigh between his, crowding them together. Like this, their height difference is pronounced; Hanzo can feel the hot line of the man’s erection against his belly, alerting him to the fact that he is fully stiff too despite his smarting spine and the bloody spit smeared thin across his chin.

 

With little apparent regard for his own life, the stranger puts his teeth in Hanzo’s neck instead, slipping a hand between him and the wall to pull him into his rolling hips. The reckless way he moves Hanzo as he pleases is completely different from his previous trysts with other men, loyal or simpering peons who leapt to fulfill Hanzo’s whims. For some reason the forceful drag of the stranger’s cock against his sends electricity skittering across his skin. He can see the man’s hair start to curl with the static building between them.

 

Hanzo scratches at the stranger’s broad neck and shoulders through his tight shirt, more punishment. The man grunts at the welts that his short nails raise through the cloth, bucking harder against him, but doesn’t hesitate to send it back. Hanzo sucks air through his teeth when the stranger slides one hand down to palm his ass, squeezing hard enough to ache.

 

“If you ruin the cut—” Hanzo begins, only to grind his teeth at a mean bite to his carotid. Swallowing a noise at the drag of his pants against his cock, he grabs the hair at the stranger’s nape and pulls him up from where he’s sucking color into the thin skin of his collarbone.

 

“No marks,” Hanzo tells him too late.

 

The stranger outright chuckles at him before yanking aside Hanzo’s collar to work on his tattoo.

 

Breathless at the disobedience, Hanzo tightens his fist, succeeding only in upping the pace of their rutting. He can feel the brick edges of the alley wall digging into his back even through his waistcoat. The way the stranger humps the straining bulge in his pants against the curve of his hip parts his legs wide, forcing him onto his toes of his wingtips.

 

Sweat starts to bead along his hairline, ruining his expensive pomade. Hanzo can feel his chin starting to tip up at the prick of the man’s canines just above his nipple. The dragons climb his ink to bear down painfully against his upper ribs, fracturing his concentration. He almost doesn’t notice the play of the stranger’s fingers against the small of his back, the way he sucks harder while he sifts the folds of Hanzo’s clothes—almost.

 

In the next heartbeat Hanzo flexes out of the stranger’s stranglehold, prying them apart. The man opens his crooked mouth to say something, but Hanzo strikes first.

 

He slaps him. Not hard enough to turn his head—just hard enough to make a point.

 

“Do not insult me,” he hisses, putting a hand to his back and withdrawing the attempted bug.

 

To his surprise, the stranger laughs, surging forward to kiss him again. “Sorry, sorry,” he mumbles into Hanzo’s mouth. He still tastes metallic. “Thought I was just returning the favor.”

 

He pulls a little piece of Shimada tech off of his own shirt, one that Hanzo’s bodyguard had slipped on him when she bruised him with her gun. Hanzo will address her sloppiness later—for now he slides his fingers back into the man’s hair and hauls the stranger forward.

 

Their frotting intensifies—the stranger’s wide hands cinch around his hips and tip Hanzo back into the rhythm he wants, pressing them together hard enough for the teeth of their zippers to snag. It’s mostly uncomfortable but Hanzo finds his breath coming hard and the clenched muscles in his thighs starting to burn anyway.

 

When the skin of his belt starts squeaking against the wall, he frowns and bucks away from their crude rutting. Before the stranger can snatch him back up, he uses his grip to lower the man to his knees.

 

“I expect you to pay,” he huffs, gesturing toward his couture.

 

He expects something of a fight, what with the ache of the stranger’s hold on him, but he goes down willingly, apparently unconcerned about the dirty alley ground. Kneeling, he jerks apart Hanzo’s pants with the same force with which he caged him against the wall.

 

“It’s on me,” the man agrees cheekily.

 

Hanzo pulls his hair pointedly. It doesn’t stop him from tugging Hanzo’s expensive underwear aside so he can take out his cock. He spares a second to smirk at the wetness running from the top to the base—just long enough for Hanzo to wonder if he should really let the man get his teeth around him—before ducking his head. His mouth is a hot and wet shock, sucking him down without hesitation.

 

The stranger is skilled. He bobs like he hardly needs air, flaunting, his tongue as wicked as the gleam in his red eye where it burns up at Hanzo. He laps at the base of his cock when he pushes down and at the slit when he pulls up, pausing briefly to test Hanzo’s hold and grinning around his mouthful when Hanzo gathers more hair between his fingers.

 

After letting the man screw his lips up and down his length a few more times, Hanzo uses his grip to take charge, pulling him on and off as he likes. The stranger gags for show when he sinks too far; throbbing, Hanzo holds him there for several breaths. When he lets go, the man leans back easily and takes revenge by spiting drool and pre on his cock, soaking the sides of his fly.

 

Caught in the red space between anger and arousal, Hanzo hauls the man in, shoving himself back in his open mouth. He fucks his face messily, not bothering to chastise him for the suit pants. The stranger takes it without complaint, just grasps the sides of his zipper and shimmies it down far enough to work a hard between the fabric and Hanzo’s groin.

 

He fondles his balls with his big hand while he works, throwing off Hanzo’s harsh rhythm. He squeezes neither gentle nor hard, making Hanzo twitch on his tongue. Somehow he manages a wink even as Hanzo bucks, and takes the opportunity of Hanzo’s surprise to start dipping his fingers further back.

 

Hanzo brings a knee up and separates them so suddenly that the stranger rocks back on his heels. He can still feel the ghost of the touch in the cleft of his ass, where the man’s fingers had passed shamelessly over his hole.

 

He intends to warm him off, but what he says is, “Not here.”

 

The stranger’s grin is ruined and swollen. “Say where.”

 

Like a fool, Hanzo debates the merits of taking an unknown agent back to his rooms over denying that smug gaze and finishing here. While he is thinking, the stranger takes the initiative, putting him away wet and doing up his fly. Hanzo watches him hop to his feet and retrieve his hat where it hangs from the bulb overhead. Light floods the alley again and gleams on the man’s shiny chin and beard.

 

Hanzo pulls out his phone and dials his chauffeur.

 

—

 

When they arrive in the suite Hanzo rented for the night, they trade places—Hanzo throws the stranger back against the door this time. He gets in between those long legs and tilts his shaggy head down to bite more kisses into that grinning mouth. He sinks his fangs into the man’s stubbled throat and pays him back for all the marks he had seen on his reflection in the tinted windows of his private car on their way here.

 

The drive from the den hadn’t been long—or perhaps it had only felt short with his cock back inside the stranger’s mouth. The man had opened him back up the moment the door shut behind them and immediately started pushing his mouth down to the base, sliding one hand under his balls again. Hanzo didn’t bother biting down on the sounds torn out of him by the bold touch; his driver had heard worse through the partition before.

 

On the way to the suite, Hanzo had folded his suit jacket across his arm and held it in front of the worst of the stains on the front of his pants. After he keyed open the suite door, the stranger had taken the jacket from him and carefully hung it across the back of the nearest chair with the utmost irony before letting him crush them together again.

 

In a fit of generosity Hanzo repays the stranger by opening his pants for the first time that night and pulling out one of the thickest cocks he has ever gotten his hand around. He strokes it dry and harsh while teething at the man’s pulse, pulling back enough to spit onto the head of the man’s cock as it pushes in and out of his fist.

 

The stranger groans shamelessly into Hanzo’s hair, humping into the unkind grip. Almost before Hanzo can register that big hand moving, he lets go of the wall to grab a handful of Hanzo’s hair and pull him up, the inverse of the alleyway. He has no choice but to stare at that red eye.

 

“How about I fuck you now,” the stranger cajoles artlessly.

 

Hanzo hadn’t planned on it, no matter where the man was touching earlier. He’s about to say so when the cock in his grip twitches hard, encouraging him to reconsider. He supposes he should see this breach of routine all the way through.

 

“Fine,” he says. “You will do the work.”

 

The stranger takes it as a challenge. He has both of their clothes off in a minute and has them up against the headboard in two, one finger crooking Hanzo open where he’s been pinned between long legs. Hanzo hadn’t even known his suite had lube—he hadn’t planned on dallying during the short duration of this deal even before he discovered it was a waste of time.

 

He hasn’t done this in many years. He grips the man’s biceps hard enough to bruise him and grits his teeth through the stretch. By the time the second finger comes, the stranger is crooning a steady stream of trite filth into his ear—how he can’t wait to put him on his cock, how he’s going to rail him until he can’t walk. Hanzo reaches back to dig his nails into the stranger’s jaw and pulls him in for a hard kiss to shut him up.

 

The stranger adds a third finger and tongue to their kiss at the same time, drawing a sound out of Hanzo that he hasn’t heard from himself a long time. He snaps a hand down around the stranger’s wrist and tugs the fingers out with a sharp frown.

 

“Enough,” he rasps, leaning back, breaking the bridge of spit connecting their lips. “Do it.”

 

Judging by everything that’s gone before, he expects the stranger to try to manhandle him down, but instead he just hooks his elbows under Hanzo’s knees where he is and pulls until Hanzo is forcibly, unflatteringly spread-eagled.

 

“There’s a sight,” the stranger sighs.

 

Hanzo looks up at their thin, ghostly reflection in the window of his suite. The first thing that registers is the red gleam of the man’s eye—then the ugly, wide spread of his legs right above the man’s groin.

 

He’s about to break the hold and maybe snap the stranger’s neck when he suddenly lowers him down and Hanzo feels the head of his thick cock pry him a little apart. The threat of the bare stretch makes him go still.

 

The stranger hisses, taking Hanzo off his dick quick enough for him to get whiplash. Then he lowers him again, until the press on his hole gets insistent enough for the tip to pop in.

 

Hanzo sucks air through his teeth. The stranger lets gravity take him down the rest of the way, ignoring how Hanzo’s grip on him tightens like manacles. Hanzo thrashes a little in his hold but he has little leverage with his knees tucked up by his shoulders. When he gets to the bottom of the man’s cock, he makes an open-mouthed noise that echoes in the hotel room.

 

The stranger is too big for how long it’s been since Hanzo has done this, although he was good at this in his youth. He starts to squirm, trying to summon the control to relax. The moment he withdraws his fingernails from the stranger’s skin, his progress is ruined by a shallow thrust.

 

All the air leaves Hanzo’s lungs in a raw rush. Lightning forks up his spine and he seizes like a vice.

 

“You’re killing me, sweetheart,” the stranger laugh-groans, somehow dropping him even further, until Hanzo can feel him in his ribs.

 

The man demonstrates his considerable strength again, hauling Hanzo back up and sawing him on and off the top of his cock. The burn eases the more sweat beads under the stranger’s grip, the more slick runs down Hanzo’s wet, still throbbing erection. Eventually he slips, damp, in that tight grip and bottoms out again hard, another sound peeled out of him. 

 

The intensity makes the dragons swarm in his arm without warning—one long spark jumps the distance from Hanzo’s skin to the stranger’s, making both of them jolt. The stranger bucks up on instinct, which makes Hanzo bear down so hard that the man curses in another language and starts fucking him in earnest.

 

The slap of skin on skin rings in the room. Hanzo drops his head back, too full; he bounces with each thrust, thighs spasming at the barrage of sensation on his skin, inside of him. He can feel bruises rising in the stranger’s flesh under his fingertips. Instead of shaking him off, the man starts to shove in faster, the drag of his cock a burn again through thinning lube.

 

The filthy drawl starts up again, distracted muttering about the tight heat of him, promising to ruin him. Hanzo loosens his shackle-like grip long enough to elbow the stranger quiet, feeling the first sparks in his belly despite himself.

 

Soon the man is slamming in and out of him from below, true to his word, as rough and bold as he was in the den with his hand between Hanzo’s legs. Hanzo can feel his own cock bobbing with every thrust but he can’t unclench his grip to reach down for himself, the pit of his stomach a tightening ball of electricity threatening to lance outward and explode in static shards.

 

The long slide of the stranger through his guts starts to break his control—the air in the suite goes dry and charged. Maybe the man can sense danger as strongly as he radiates it, because suddenly Hanzo feels that red eye piercing him, a threat at the nape of his neck. That threat is what makes the concentrated power in Hanzo’s belly finally burst.

 

He shoots high up his own chest, body flashing with dark heat. His legs kick out with the cramp of it, nearly breaking the hold on him. The stranger curses through the contractions, squeezing Hanzo around the middle hard enough to wind him and lifting him off of his cock in time to spurt between his thighs.

 

The stranger finally releases him, falling back against the bed with a whistle. Hanzo kneels over him, winded and smeared with come, aching in his hips and back from the undignified fucking. He looks over his shoulder at the man, debating whether or not to strangle him now for his impudence, but his hand is momentarily stayed by the marks in the shape of his hands purpling on that brown skin.

 

Usually Hanzo wastes little time pointing his visitors in his bed to the door before they can outstay their welcome. Right now he is focused on returning his limbs to order, one eye on the stranger in case he plans to attack in the muggy cloud of their sex.

 

“I ought to kill you now,” he speaks his thoughts out loud. He reaches for something to wipe with and regrets it when it makes his raw insides flare.

 

The stranger opens an eye at the shift of weight on the mattress and closes it when Hanzo sits back with his undershirt. “What a way to go,” he sighs, unthreatened. “I’d say that was worth it.”

 

“Flattering,” Hanzo says drily, “that you would wager your life for a fuck.” He drops the soiled undershirt on the man’s belly.

 

“Better betting than back there,” the stranger points out, ignoring the shirt.

 

Hanzo snorts—if he means the den, then the point is fair. “I may take it yet,” he warns, thinking of the blades he stowed in the nightstand and along the headboard. “Once I find out who sent you and what you are after.”

 

“The _who_ is confidential, but I ain’t after anything but that ass,” the man says with an earnestness that should embarrass him. He reaches down to cup his own balls and his thick cock flexes once with new blood. “I’m up for another gamble, matter of fact.”

 

The stranger’s arrogant, open sprawl across Hanzo’s bed antagonizes him. “Then you are even more stupid than you are brave,” Hanzo says.

 

The man tips his missing hat. “Told you so.”

 

Hanzo stares at him. His skin and his teeth gleam with sweat and spit; his broad muscles bunch and flex as he spreads his legs around Hanzo again in invitation. The talk of killing has brought the red gleam back to that eye. His gaze lowers to where the man is stroking himself like another artless proposition.

 

“I must be incredibly stupid too,” Hanzo decides eventually, and fists the stranger’s hair to pull him in again.

**Author's Note:**

> If you'd like to chat or leave a tip, I also exist at [t-pock.tumblr.com](https://t-pock.tumblr.com).


End file.
